


Clams Casino

by Lustingaftervillains



Category: Casino Royale (2006), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: CBT, Dry Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Rape/Non-con Elements, That torture scene, Torture, dream scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lustingaftervillains/pseuds/Lustingaftervillains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chasing after Hannibal, Will comes across a man who looks and sounds almost exactly like him... And who notices him right back.</p><p>-- this work is on hiatus for now</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Game and fish

One thousand five hundred milliseconds – one point five seconds. That was how long it took for the stranger to trip Le Chiffre's mental wire, like a stray roulette ball. The length of a gaze that the banker, hyper aware of his surroundings, purposefully didn't meet, yet carefully appraised.

Too long for a passing glance, too short for plain interest; its path on his face too precise for simple attraction or repulsion – and he hadn't stared at his dead eye.

He smiled at the older couple who was thanking him profusely for his monetary contribution to the lavish art exhibit opening – a cover for a negociation that would never happen, the other party having met an unfortunate end in a plane crash approximately twenty minutes earlier. Money wasted on a wasted opportunity. Rate of return: zero.

Approximately forty-five seconds after that first glance, the young man – Le Chiffre guessed mid thirties - grabbed a drink off an offered tray. Stared into his glass. Turned his back to him and his little group of socialites. He was just unkempt enough to pass as a careless, drunk tourist, lost on his way back to his room at the Ibiza Gran Hotel. Wrinkled shirt, disheveled brown curls. Possibly a businessman who liked to leave the suit and tie behind during his one wild vacation of the year.

Possibly. Possibly not. Risk assessment was a difficult art, all the more so when you weren't sure anymore how many players you were competing against.

Could this new face be linked to the cancelled deal?

The stranger put the untouched glass down on the table to his right, his hands shaking to the point that he almost made it tumble. Then he shot another bloodshot glance in his direction.

Drunk. Most likely a tourist, then. How disappointing. Still, Le Chiffre made a mental note to check the crash footage and compare the time stamps with those of the surveillance camera. See if this one turned up anywhere. Just to be safe.

Two more minutes of idle chatting. Another glance. Another glass grabbed, and this time the man stopped closer to his little group. He excused himself to answer his phone and placed a call.

Five minutes and forty-five seconds after he'd been noticed, the man was identified as Special Agent Will Graham, working with the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia. A summary ID form appeared on the screen of his smartphone, detailing the man's address, family ties – none -, work relations – a collection of meaningless names.

Time served at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, on serial murder charges dropped altogether a few weeks later.

Maybe there was something about this strange little ball after all.

Le Chiffre let a smile play at his lips as he scrolled back up to have another look at the close up picture of the young man – noticing, for once, not the shorter hair or the clean shaven face – something had happened to him since that picture -, but the enticing curb of eyelids, the teasing shape of lips.

The probability that this man was after him, or connected to the deal in any way, was close to zero point twenty-five. One in four chances, and he was being conservative, as was safer in this case.

Still, after what had happened with McKinley and the cancelled deal, that was much too high for his liking.

Only one way to bring that number down – and he had no other game planned that night.

He sent a message back, setting his team in motion.

*********

When the man told him he would be broken that night, that there would be nothing recognisable by the time they were done, Will wanted to laugh and laugh and retort that “Monsieur” was a little too late for that. Tell him, in a raspy voice thick with the last of the whiskey he'd imbibed that night: _sorry, buddy, but everything that “had to happen” has already happened._

The peel of laughter that escaped his mouth instead was too high and too loud, with none of his actual voice behind it; it bounced off the walls of whatever dark, hellishly hot place where the man who visibly hadn't liked his sustained attention had taken him.

His capture had been quick, efficient; he'd only figured out something was up at the very last second; and then he'd woken up where he was, alone with the shadow cast on the metal wall by the man he'd almost thought was Hannibal Lecter in disguise, yet somehow had instantly known wasn't.

For the moment, he obstinately remained behind him, out of sight, walking in slow, deliberate steps. Rummaging through... tools and cloth. Unnerving – on purpose. Will looked down at his naked body, the puffed red L on his lower belly. He tried to flex his arms tied to the back of the hollowed out chair – impossible. Same for the ankles, secured tightly to the chair legs. The guy was a pro, after all; that much was obvious.

Taking in a deep breath, he tried to center himself. He had never been /after/ the man. He'd just come across him on his way back to the hotel – and it'd felt like being struck by lightning. That resemblance. The suit. The attitude.

He'd had to get near, trying to look unconspicuous. To observe and listen. And, of course, that man, that man who looked and even sounded so much like Hannibal Lecter had to be a high profile criminal.

The first blow came by surprise, and at first Will didn't understand what had just happened to him, the blunt force of the impact on his cock and balls left vulnerable by the bottomless chair, from behind. He cried out in pain, tried to turn his head to look at the one-eyed man.

When he came into view, he was dangling the thick, square knot that had just hit him at the end of a length of rope half as thick as his wrist.

He flashed him a smile, and Will couldn't not stare at that uncanny face, politeness be damned. Had this guy not been rude first, kidnapping him like this for the sin of looking at him? The thought that rudeness might just not matter to this _version_ bubbled inside him and almost made him laugh again. _Sorry, dude, I thought you were somebody else. I'll just show myself out._

The accented voice – about as distinct from Hannibal's as that face, just a few inflections placed differently, like the scars he was wearing and his hair colour were different – resonated again, reciting lines that Will could tell had been spoken dozens of times before. The sooner Will would yield the information he needed, the sooner his genitals would be spared – and, if he was lucky, by the time this was over, there would still be enough left to identify the thing between his legs as a penis.

When they found his body, that was. Because Will wasn't stupid enough to believe there was any hope on the “surviving the ordeal” front with this one.

His thought were interrupted again by a second blow, a lot more vicious this time, the spinning rope striking from his side, curling around his thigh and sending the knot to bite his most tender flesh with that much more force.

Will bellowed in pain that soared like a tidal wave for several seconds, threatening to take his mind with it; when it finally plateaued, then receded, leaving him panting, he reminded himself grimly that this was only the beginning. How many before he'd pass out from the pain? How long to wake him from that?

About four, depending on strength and spacing, and between thirty seconds and a few minutes, his trained mind provided. He could visualise with absolute clarity the marks that would leave on his flesh, the bloom of burst capillaries sending more blood through soft tissue until death ended the circulatory process altogether, leaving it to stagnate; change colour; start quietly rotting away until his remains were either found or decomposed to oblivion.

Another blow struck home and as he shouted again, throat cracking around a scream too big for it, he knew if he looked into that face again, so similar to the man he once knew, if he saw him and connected that image to that pain, that would be another part of him gone.

“Tell me, mister Graham, who do you work for?”

The question didn't make sense – who did the guy think he was? A double agent? Working on serial killer cases to cover... What? Affiliation with Russia, like in a spy movie? 

His barked out laugh found an immediate answer in a quick, devastating blow. Screaming hoarsely, he looked up into that half dead gaze and that's when he saw that the man wasn't really looking for an answer. He was just enjoying himself, on top of getting rid of such a puny little fish that had dared come too close to the great white.

A faint whimper escaped his lips, and the spark he saw in the other's remaining eye told him everything he needed to know about the kind of flesh that one was after.

“You know who I work for,” he managed, catching his breath, staring up into that so strange, so familiar face.

The next blow almost made him black out, and his tormentor kept him with him with a slap, his face so very close to Will's. He could smell his aftershave - notes of sandalwood and spice - mixed with the sweat that sheathed his body, his face – it was so very hot in here.

“I'm with the FBI – behavioral science. Serial killers,” he said, his eyes following the path of the red scar over his eye. Trying hard to ignore the throbbing pain between his legs. “You aren't one.” Technically.

The dark-haired man smiled. A tear of blood slowly made its way down his cheek from the corner of the dead eye; Will's throat bobbed, his body shrinking on itself, the little it was able.

The stranger leaned closer, his face right above Will's now, and when the red tear fell off the man's chin, it landed on Will's lips. He licked them reflexively before he could stop himself, and that one eye watched him, amused. 

“Why were you following me?”

He thought he could taste the danger he was in, in that drop of blood. This wasn't Hannibal, no. With Hannibal, he would know what to say, would have the pull of affection to try to wiggle his way out.

There was no such influence to be had on this man – at least, he didn't have it. All he had was his attention, his curiosity like a shark's; it could just as well cut him in half with a single bite as spend the rest of the night rubbing him with his abrasive skin to get a taste until there was nothing but blood left.

He licked his lips again, trying to get rid of the salt there, not quite daring to spit.

“You're not- I was looking for-” He took in a quick breath, trying to steady himself. His cock and balls felt like they had tripled in size, throbbing at the same pace as his head; he didn't dare look down at himself. 

He felt a stab of longing for the monster who wasn't there, and would have laughed at how grotesque the situation had to be for him to wish for Hannibal Lecter to be there, had he still been capable. But all traces of drunkenness had left him, now.

“I was just going through the lobby and- you caught my attention.”

“Why?”

He blinked under that unnerving gaze, and the jab he was about to make about the man's appearance remained stuck in his throat when knuckles stroked their way up his cheek, the touch rough with the rope trailing behind it, the cruel knot over his chest.

He bellowed, the sound feeling like it deformed his entire neck with its sheer size, when the man's other hand found his swollen cock and squeezed it. He felt it split open, heard blood drip down onto the floor, the pain like an arm reaching inside him, through his very flesh to yank at his core, before everything went black.

Of course, his tormentor was waiting for him, so very patient and, yes, polite, when he returned.

“S-stop,” he slurred when he had his voice again, the man's other hand still on his face. “There's no point in any of this... I'm not after people like you. I'm a profiler with the FBI. You're way too high profile for me, I- I don't even know your name!” He swallowed, collecting his thoughts. He couldn't lost it now. Not now. “I noticed you, that's all, it happens. You can check, if you want. Nobody in my department is after you – they don't even know you exist.” Well, they might, after he failed to answer enough phone calls. 

And for one searing second, he hoped this man had enough influence that they wouldn't be able to go after him, to go anywhere near him.

The one-eyed man had a small, cold chuckle.

“I know all this... I just happen to have noticed you back.” 

Will looked at him with wide eyes – but there was no surprise in them. Not really. 

“Now, tell me, Mister Graham, do you want me to notice Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, and all your little friends at the BSU as well? It would be easy, you know. One little plane crash.” He illustrated his words with a slow movement of his hand gliding down, and then spreading his fingers. “Going down as a team.”

He shook his head, unable to hide the horror in his eyes – it was what this monster wanted, anyway, and he had nothing else to give him.

“Good. Then I believe we will find a mutually beneficial arrangement – a public-private partnership, if you will.” 

Will hated the way he instinctively flinched when his tormentor's hand patted his shoulder.

“I am known by my business partners as Le Chiffre, Mister Graham. Now that we know each other, let us take care of that transaction.”

*********

The mathematics of human behaviour, complex as they appeared, could be reduced. Simplified like a long and overly ornate equation, with the right incentive.

Obey and survive – and allow your loved ones to survive too.

Disobey and watch your entire universe collapse on itself like a house of cards.

The man trembling in pain in front of him, reduced to his simplest form, currently had a fifty percent chance of surviving the night – but that particular probability would be decided on later. That little ball hadn't landed into a pocket yet.

Le Chiffre took a step back, admiring his handywork. That one had been keeping himself fit. He could hear it, if he came close enough, the powerful thump of that strong heart inside his chest. He idly wondered what the story behind that scar on his underbelly was – it looked fairly recent.

He took the gun he'd been keeping hidden against his back, carefully screwed on the silencer, revelling in the way the other's breath caught, came out faster and faster as he took his time.

And still, even as Le Chiffre took a step forward, and then another; as his victim's head angled up to keep eye contact with the black clad man who now towered over him, it was obvious he was trying to keep a semblance of composure, of reason. Still intelligence remained in these wide blue eyes. That was good – hitched his chances of survival up a notch.

“Is this your first time?” He asked idly, and his eyes left his briefly to follow the lazy curves the tip of the silencer was tracing through the brown curls, now dark and damp with sweat.

He wasn't expecting an answer, and so he got none, and for a while they remained like this, close enough to each other that they could feel the heat coming off their bodies build up between them; the panting breaths of the young man the only sounds Le Chiffre could hear – he doubted, however, that Graham could hear anything at all above the rush of his own blood through his ears.

“You're an intelligent man, Mister Graham,” he said finally, and he did love the way the cavernous chamber made his voice sound, just the slightest echoes coming off the dark that surrounded their little world. He brought the silencer to the man's lips, following their curve even as they tightened; Graham blinked hard, staring ahead at nothing, and opened his mouth with a shudder.

Practical minded as Le Chiffre was, there was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to feel those lips wrapped around him. He smiled when he saw the other's eyes, looking all the more blue for being bloodshot, stray and focus on the shape straining against the inside of his tormentor's pants.

He didn't need to say more – both the threat and the order made obvious.

He teased both his unfortunate partner and himself some more, pushing the silencer deeper inside that mouth.

“At this angle,” he remarked casually. “If I pull the trigger now, either I hit the spinal cord at the back of your neck, and unless you receive immediate medical attention, you die... Or I miss it, hit the internal carotid artery, and make a bloody mess. Let's allow for some less conservative scenarios where the bullet would only graze just so against your spine, or I manage to hit both... That leaves us with a 50 to 60 percent chance for me to have enough time to penetrate you while you're still conscious.”

The young man shot him a glance that wanted to be unimpressed, but didn't quite achieve the intended effect – his pupils reduced to pinpoints, his shallow, shivering breaths belied that. Le Chiffre noticed, however, how those eyes, after meeting his, rested on his lips, just a moment traced the outline of his jaw. He smiled down at him, the same smile he used, on the surface, to greet a prospective client.

“Have we met before?” He asked as he undid his pants, reached inside to free his blushed erection – and there was a scar there too, a patch of thick tissue that extended to his pubis. The leaking head brushed against the stubble on his captive's jaw before he guided it to the corner of his mouth, still busy with the silencer. Another quick glance, pupils that dilated, just a fraction, just for a few milliseconds.

Le Chiffre angled his head, intrigued.

“Yes? I'm sorry, then, that I can't remember you. Perhaps you had managed to disguise your face and body well enough, because I am quite certain I would have remembered.”

The silencer made a little wet click against Graham's teeth as he pulled it out of his mouth, traced a slow line up to his temple, his forehead.

“Oh, one thing you might want to know about me: I hate half assed work. Please, don't make me shoot.” he said with that smile again, and pushed the head of his cock to rest on that soft lower lip.

The man shut his eyes and shivered, as if in the throes of a nightmare, and then he slowly closed his lips around the dark red head.

The pleasure that shot through him was strong enough to make him shiver, just from that simple touch; good enough for him to thank the sequence of probabilities that had brought them together like this. He so rarely indulged in this kind of pleasure, and in this case, the extra layer of mystery made it even better.

He gave a shallow thrust, chuckled when he saw the way the man opened wide, put his lips over his teeth to avoid any grazing. Very good. Le Chiffre liked teeth, sometimes, but right now, he was enjoying watching this man give what he was almost certain was the first blow job of his life. Training would come later, if there was a later.

Maybe.

He watched him slowly take more in, tendons jutting in his neck as he strained his head forward; was generous enough to give an appreciative moan when a timid tongue touched his sensitive underside; chuckled quietly when he felt it recoil in reaction, then come back. He gave him a little nudge, just a little pelvic thrust forward, and smiled when that elicited the right response, tight lips running back up his shaft.

The second time that mouth went down his shaft was already easier, and like that, little by little, they worked a rhythm together, his captive's head moving back and forth, while his own arm did the same, keeping the tip of the silencer on his forehead.

But when those blue eyes opened again, unfocused almost the point of vacancy, the illusion of team work was broken.

Le Chiffre's free hand fisted into the damp curls and he gave a sharp tug forward, forcing his way in, stopping just short of deep throating and then back out, brutal. 

“You're here, Mister Graham. Here with me.” He growled. Fucked that head until tears started flowing freely down pale cheeks, and he thrust all the way in, then, came to the convulsion of the man's gag reflex. He pulled out and stepped away, just in case – but this one had an empty stomach, and only retched air while ropes of thick white fluid landed across his cheek, his lips, his hair.

Thirty more seconds, and the gun rose between them, Le Chiffre's arm as steady as ever. The wheel in his head had slowed its spinning, and the little ball had found itself trapped in a black pocket.

He was about to say something, a few last words for this man who'd just given him one of the best orgasms of his life, when he saw his lips move.

Had he stood just a few inches further away, had he not held his breath to listen, and had he not been gifted with an excellent sense of earing, he wouldn't have been able to parse what were obviously meant to be private words, a last prayer to whatever god this one believed in.

“Thank you, Hannibal.”


	2. Black, red and blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Chiffre takes his new pet out while on a little business trip, and has fun with a few games of his own making...

The castle stood atop the cliff, square tower erect against the roaring elements.

Will shivered as he bent forward to prop his hands on the stone balcony overlooking the ocean. The last days had been stormy, and standing where he was, the spray hit him with every brutal wave crashing against the rock underneath, like thousands of cold needles thrown at him by the wind.

Still, he wouldn't move, eyes lost in the shapes of the gathering, darkening clouds, following their long coils until they disappeared into the curve of the ocean. He opened his mouth, tilting his head back, when drizzle started falling, like a child trying to catch a snowflake.

He closed his eyes, felt warm hands put a robe over his shoulders, and he leaned ever so slightly into the touch with a sigh that was both pleased and wistful. 

The warm garment was carefully secured on his shoulders – some exquisite fabric that looked like silk but felt like fleece. A hand, broad and, yes, a little possessive, remained on the small of his back as the man Will had once called his friend stood next to him.

Will's gaze stubbornly stayed focused away, as in the distance, lightning bolts started flashing, illuminating the dark grey horizon.

“This is all yours, Will,” Hannibal said quietly, and there was that warmth to his voice, that fascinating poise; it reached inside Will's ribcage and yanked at his heart brutally enough that he shut his eyes, leaned over the thick stone. The ocean hid his dry laugh.

“Your 'rare gift' to me.”

“The concept of it, yes.” 

Will glanced to the side at Hannibal. The older man turned to look down on the sprawled body of the castle, leaning back against the railing, admiring the thick walled building with a satisfied smile.

“But you built it yourself.” And his besotted expression said all about how satisfied he was with that latest product of his protégé's mind.

Will shook his head, still not looking at what he refused to call his memory palace – there weren't memories there, anyway. He was reasonably sure. 

“I don't go in there. If I can't have a stream, then I can at least have the ocean and the wind.”

Hannibal nodded, still smiling that unnerving smile, and amicably turned around again, leaned against Will's side. Will didn't move away.

“And the boat.”

“Yes, and the boat.”

Both men watched the motorboat that had appeared, as if summoned, over the steel horizon. It was gliding towards them at the speed of nightmares, its aggressive shape seeming to cut its way through the water like a black and white blade, and the wake it left behind it was dark like the blood of a drown victim.

Will shuddered, and when Hannibal's arm hooked around his waist, he didn't stiffen; leaned into the tall, solid presence of the man he never thought he would miss.

“You can make it all go away, Will,” Hannibal whispered, his lips brushing against his ear.

The boat was gaining speed now, and the wake was growing with it, tainting the entire ocean with blood. The wind howled in their ears like cries of agony.

“I'm in my own head,” he remarked. “How can I get away from that? I couldn't even get away from you.”

“You only have to say one word,” the man now standing right behind him offered, as both his hands slid under his robe, stroking his chest, and he shuddered again, hard.

“Please...”

He couldn't stop staring at the motorboat still coming closer, its windows like narrow eyes staring back at him. 

He took just that half step back, leaning hard into the solid warmth that was Hannibal.

“It can't reach you here,” crooned the voice in his ear. “Nothing can.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and turned his head, cheek rubbing against Hannibal's jaw like an animal seeking comfort.

He gasped when the soft kiss pressed against the corner of his mouth turned into teeth sinking into tender flesh. He opened his mouth and nipped back against the growl in the other's throat. He wouldn't bite, no matter how rough the Hannibal in his mind played.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget everything else as he reached back to hold onto Hannibal; made himself grind against the hard shape he could feel pressed against his ass.

Perhaps, if he focused hard enough, he could make it all disappear. Open his eyes again and see the light grey expanse of the void, as if his eyes had been taken away.

The wind howled louder, as if in protest against the very thought, and Hannibal pushed two fingers inside him without preparation, and the pain felt just good enough not to stop, and just not strong enough that he could ignore the buzzing growl of the motorboat... And the shouts carried by the wind.

“H-” His eyes snapped open and he would have recoiled in horror, had he been capable, but there were strong arms around him, holding him firmly in place, and a cock that demanded to have him.

The boat was now standing atop a tidal wave almost as tall as the tower, and it was coming to get them, the coils of blood like the body of a gigantic serpent, shadows of scales across the height of the steel water.

Will clutched the arms now holding him captive, trying to struggle free.

“It's-it's coming for us, Hanniba-”

He felt the other man enter him, and shouted.

“You think you're alone against the monsters, Will,” Hannibal said, in that quiet, poised voice, and he slowly, leisurely thrust in and out of him with a quiet sigh of pleasure.

And, to Will's panicked mind, that felt so very /good/, too. A pillar of warmth that nothing could take down. Should the wave drown him, he knew Hannibal would still remain standing exactly where he was, Will's pale body in his arms like a statue holding a human sacrifice.

“I am- please!” He tried, weakly, to struggle free, but there was nowhere else to go, between the castle now being drowned under the rising water, the thunderbolts that struck the stone right by them, flashes of light that made everything look at once slower and faster than they were, like the sea serpent about to swallow his mind whole moved only between their flashing lights.

“You have a choice, Will,” Hannibal crooned into his ear, one strong hand gripping his hip with bruising strength.

And still, the wave was looming closer – and now, he could see, on the boat, the silhouettes of passengers and crew. The black clad one of his captor, and the three henchmen that never left his side.

“I don't-”

“You've seen him. You know what he does. What he's becoming. And now he wants to take you with him. Will you let him, Will? What purpose will that serve? Who will that help?”

Will shut his eyes again, just a few seconds and the wave would be upon them. He shook against the solid presence of his friend.

“Noone,” he gasped out, and moaned when Hannibal slammed into him again.

“Do you want to die, now, Will?” He asked in the eerie silence inside the curve of the wave, in the smothering scent of salt and seaweed and blood.

Will's eyes snapped open again, staring at the hull about to smash through his head, and snapped.

“No!” He shouted, and although he didn't hear it himself, Hannibal must have had.

He felt him spill inside him at the same time as he saw his hand come up in front of him.

And just like that, like closing a cabinet door, Hannibal pushed back the monstrous mass of the motorboat. For a second, it looked like the wave was standing with them, balancing on itself, that formidable mass of water and blood quivering back and forth – and then it went down, collapsing in on himself in a deafening crash, leaving the two men standing on what was left of the stone balcony.

Will felt the arm around him let go. He took a trembling step forward, looked down upon the jagged, bloodied rock underneath like so many teeth that pierced right through the gutted boat.

He thought he ought to feel joy, some kind of pleasure at seeing his captor's body maimed so, the neck bent at a harsh angle, brain mass oozing out of the open skull.

“You're free, now, Will,” Hannibal said behind him.

But as his gaze travelled away from the corpse to the unidentified men and women struggling in the water, about to be smashed against the rock with the next wave, all Will could feel, under the seemingly endless loneliness that wrapped around him like a cold blanket, was trapped.

*****

The day was... Almost comfortable.

For one thing, he had clothes. A grey suit that fit too well to have been bought off the rack. 

What were a body's measurements, if not a series of figure? Monsieur had a sharp eye – and, Will thought glumly, he'd had plenty of time to get to know his body with a lot more than just his eye.

Seven months and 25 days, exactly. And he had been kept busy.

Trying to distract himself, he adjusted the belt on the elegant trousers, the holster with the dummy gun in it – just for show, the monster had said; looked at himself in the gold rimmed mirror. Tried to pretend he was alone in the master cabin. He blinked, and when the dark silhouette he could make out out the corner of his eyes turned into another man, just as dangerous, he shivered.

/You'd love this,/ he thought at him.

/I do... appreciate it,/ the familiar voice answered, curious comfort inside his mind. /but this shade of grey doesn't suit you, Will./

/I would have found you a darker one, with a small dash of colour – blue, or green, to match your eyes,/ the Hannibal now ever present inside him, pathetic crutch of his desperate mind, continued. /This white shirt makes for a bland ensemble./

/So he stands out more,/ Will answered.

/Dimming your light to brighten his... Not very polite./

He shut his eyes, pictured the other man behind him, looking at their joined reflection in the mirror.

Gasped when he felt that presence, hands on his sides, his belly, and a kiss on the side of his neck. A cold little laugh. Taunting.

“Daydreaming again, my toy boy?”

Will shivered, cold despite the heat of the body now pressed against his, and Le Chiffre laughed again, bit the spot he had just kissed with enough strength to leave a bruise. Will grunted, but didn't struggle – not this time.

Not when he was about to get out of the yacht for the first time since his capture.

Peering into the mirror at the pale face right above his shoulder, that eye staring at him again, he shook his head, just a fraction.

“I'm just going through the rules set for today.”

“Good.” A sharp knuckled hand made its way up Will's belly, his chest. Rested on his throat, finger and thumb on pulsating blood vessels – and the bruises, some fading, some still blooming there; Monsieur loved his neck so.

He tugged at his tie, tightening the knot just that much, and laughed when Will tensed in response.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to strangle you – not today.” He let go of him, and Will managed to remain silent, gaze focusing on a spot somewhere outside the room.

“Perfect,” Le Chiffre said, and let go. “Now, show me how you walk.”

Will shot him a venomous glance before he could stop himself, and stiffened again when his captor's hand found his ass, the crease right under where a leather strap could be felt, right under thin cloth.

“No!” Will exclaimed, and gasped when a dexterous finger slipped under the strap and the harness he was wearing pulled on the base of his maimed cock and balls circled by a thick, sharp edged steel ring. Tense, he stared into the mirror at the other man, tried so very hard not to keel over from the sheer pain of it.

Le Chiffre smiled at him, and pulled just a little bit harder.

They both felt it when skin tore, and Will moaned in pain, felt blood seep into his underwear.

In the mirror, Le Chiffre's face hardened, gaze like steel ball bearings, the scar over his left eye stading out on skin suddenly gone pale with anger – and oh, did Monsieur get angry, these days.

“You were recalling the rules, you said,” he stated, staring at the reflection of Will, tendons jutting in his neck with the effort not to show, not to break. He nodded.

“Y-yes. N-not to sp-speak unless spoken to- AH! STOP!” He barked out when the leather that encased his crotch was pulled still tighter, and more blood pooled in his underwear, trickled down his thigh.

The man did let go, then, only to hit him in the back with enough strength to send him tumbling forward, into the mirror. 

It took the pet – another 'affectionate' name for him - a few seconds to get back onto his knees, then his feet, but when he did, his own face was neutral, those wonderful lips relaxed in a slight pout. Only his eyes burned with contempt, like cold little flames.

Le Chiffre tilted his head, in that manner he'd noticed made his pet twitch, and laughed when he saw that he didn't, this time. And that he didn't speak, either. He was learning.

“Good. That's the attitude I want you to have when we reach the client's house. Now,” he stepped back and made a sweeping gesture to tell his pet to walk before him. “Show me how you walk.”

Will arched an eyebrow. “Slowly, is how I walk,” he remarked, and demonstrated. With the harness pulling on his most tender parts, now bleeding again thanks to Le Chiffre's diligent care, he was severely limited in his movements. His steps looked relatively normal, still – impressive. Le Chiffre nodded in approval.

“Slow is fine. We aren't going to run much today – but if we do, I'll take you with me.” Or down. Whichever was more convenient.

The look the younger man shot him was nothing short of murderous, and that was exactly what Le Chiffre had been going for.

*****

Two pair of eyes focused on Will as he limped his way into the eerily silent guest room – and one of them was uncomfortably familiar.

It felt almost like walking in on a crime scene – one that wasn't completely “done” yet: the violence Will had heard as he slowly made his way up the stairs of the imposing mansion echoed back inside his brain, much closer this time – the screams and the blood spattering from the punched mouth of the older of the two women who lived there. The quick, efficient work of the henchmen as they beat them into submission, leaving countless footprints, hairs and skin flakes for the investigator to find. The only thing missing was a dead body.

He swallowed as his eyes met the sharp gaze of Margot Verger. Her eyes didn't reveal anything, barely even brushed over the bruises Will knew to be starkly visible on his own neck – and he was thankful for them in that moment. They drove the point home that he was not a threat, that he wasn't part of this – not like the others were.

Le Chiffre was standing with back to him, pointing his gun between the women knelt down before him.

“I don't have much time, tonight, my dears,” he said with a laugh and a wink behind him for Will. “I won't fool around this time: I need to know a thing or two, and I believe you hold the information that I require for the transaction I am owed by the late Mr MacKinley to go through.”

At the mention of the name, the two glanced at each other with wide eyes that said, with absolute clarity in Will's mind, that they had no idea what he was talking about. Whether because they had been kept in the dark and the man who used to own this house had used a false identity, or because Monsieur had simply rung the wrong doorbell, he didn't know.

He breathed, and the smell of blood and gunpowder seemed that much more obscene for the knowledge that the cooling bodies in the hallway were there for nothing.

Will slowly walked closer, until he could see, from the side, Le Chiffre's arm as it went up, the gun aimed at the older woman – Margot's lover. Until he could look into his eyes, as he waited for one of the women to talk.

In the eight months since his capture, Will had learned a great deal about Monsieur Le Chiffre. About that sharp, ruthlessly practical mind and the holes on that steel armour, like the gills of a shark, rich with blood and vulnerable if one knew how to reach there. Gambling. Playing. Without play, life was so very boring, and ever since the cancelled deal, life had been so very, very boring for Monsieur.

“Tell me, Will,” the cold voice said. “Who should I shoot first?”

Will looked from one to the other, back up at the man, and he saw that little flame dance there, that little spark that was both familiar and new – he'd seen it grow, over the course of the last months. Boredom feeding it until it would jump at the nearest target. Will could try to make it so it wouldn't burn the innocent ones, here.

“You can kill both of them,” he started, making himself sound distant as well.

“Bastards,” the older woman hissed, but neither of them seemed to hear.

Le Chiffre's cold eyes met Will's – interested. Good. Now, to build upon that attention.

“But if you do, Monsieur Le Chiffre, you will have lost the information you came here to get forever.”

Le Chiffre shrugged. “Information is never lost. It's always stored somewhere – somewhere more reliable than a human brain”, he said and the tip of his gun touched the older woman's forehead. She almost didn't flinch, and didn't moan, only looked up at him with quiet anger.

She was fit, muscles toned on her arms, bulging up uselessly as she strained against imaginary restraints. And, of course, that pleased her tormentor tremendously - probably why he hadn't deemed it necessary to actually restrain them. Who needed tape and rope when you had guns?

He hadn't used a silencer this time – if he pulled the trigger now, the back of her head would explode and spray the entire room and its occupants with bloodied bits of brain matter, hair and shards of skull.

The smell of burnt flesh and gunpowder would be unbearable.

Will licked his lips. This was a game – and he, Will, was the other player. As long as he could entertain him, these two had a chance to survive – thin as it was.

“The human brain is more interesting than a computer,” he countered softly. “Wouldn't it be boring to just uncover whatever databank what you're looking for is stored into?”

Le Chiffre remained silent, staring at Will, and slowly, as if too focused on that question to keep aiming his gun, the barrel went down.

Will didn't have time to warn Margot's lover of the obvious manoeuvre, and she jumped forward, or tried to, snapping for Le Chiffre's legs to trip him.

The bullet entered her skull through a neat little hole, and exploded inside of it, making the predicted mess.

Will lunged forward and shoved Margot to the side, placing himself between her and Le Chiffre; winced as he felt his own flesh tear at the ample movement. “RUN!” He shouted for her, and she did, crashing through the thin window and falling into the swimming pool outside in a splash. She shouted when one of the henchmen got her from the window, a bullet tracing a painful gash along her hip, but she kept going.

By the time they had run down the stairs after her, she was already running barefoot across the garden, her long blond hair flying after her. Le Chiffre stood at the door, following her shrinking silhouette with the sight of his gun, and grinned as she reached the bushes at the back of the property.

“Au revoir, Margot!” He shouted after her, and his laughter bounced off the bloodied water of the pool.

“The rest of the staff is there,” Le Chiffre said nonchalantly, nodding towards the building to the right of the pool. The three henchmen ran, leaving their boss and his pet behind.

His captive was leaning against the stone lion at the foot of the stairs, panting, his suit spattered with blood, drenched in sweat, bent and tensed around his crotch, where still more blood was blooming into a stain the size of a dinner plate.

He wasn't looking at him, didn't look up even as he walked to him, and put the tip of his gun to his temple – just like old times. Will hissed – the metal was still hot.

“Looks like you saved a life, Will,” Le Chiffre said, and although there was a smile, there, to greet him when he looked at him, it was thin and cold.

“This-this makes no sense,” the younger man accused, and his eyes were blazing with anger and contempt. “You-”

“They weren't about to talk, no,” he agreed, like he was commenting on a cocktail dress to please a guest.

He hooked an arm around his pet's waist.

Will hissed in pain at being brought upright.

“B-because they didn't /know/,” he continued through clenched teeth, determination in his bloodshot eyes. He followed the other man's move as he was forced to walk to the poolside.

His captor turned to face him, chest to chest with him, seemingly oblivious to the muffled cries and struggles of the three people being brought forth by his loyal henchmen.

They were all Will could see, over Le Chiffre's shoulder even as his cheek was being kissed, licked, his earlobe playfully nibbled on. Two middle-aged men, and a younger one. Gardener, cook and janitor, from their attire. Peaceful people whose eyes screamed desperate pleas at his when they met, as they were forcefully knelt and, this time, tied down, knees to the water.

As sandbag taken out of the very supply shed they had been found in were tied to their necks. Will shivered. 

“N-”

“No, that's right, they didn't know,” Le Chiffre crooned in his ear, as the hard tip of the gun ran down Will's spine. “But you, my dear, you knew,” he said, pulling back to look into his eyes, his tone still so very pleasant. They were just enjoying a moment in the sun by the pool, weren't they?

Will's eyes met his captor's, and yes, he knew. He'd broken the rules, and he wouldn't be the only one to pay.

“What can I do?” He asked quietly, his voice gone flat. He knew how that new little “game” was going to end, but he couldn't not play, because not playing, as Le Chiffre was fond of saying, was losing by default. 

And if Will had no idea whether there was something he could win, in this situation, it was painfully obvious what he stood to lose.

Le Chiffre grinned and sought a kiss that Will allowed, but didn't reciprocate. 

“Let's have a little soak, what do you say?” He whispered between them.

“Y-yes.” What else could he say?

He stood as still as he could manage, shivering in the blazing sun as the man slowly stripped him of his clothes, send them flying into the water. Will watched as his thin white shirt landed gracefully on the surface, then was gradually soaked until it sank under, pulled down by the weight.

Only a few weeks ago, Le Chiffre would never have stayed on a crime scene – or any of his “places of business” for that matter – for so long unless absolutely necessary. He was cautious, calculating, preferred to strike swiftly and not leave a trace. Murders weren't an everyday fare, either. Except, as of late, they seemed to have become so.

/He is evolving,/ the familiar accented voice in his mind said.

/Devolving,/ Will's mind countered, with what was left of his own voice.

The silence that followed had the texture of a subdued smile.

Will suppressed a grunt when his underwear was pulled down, and conspicuously didn't look down at himself, at the mess the cruel harness had made again.

“I will need to take you to the doctor, this time, I'm afraid,” Le Chiffre commented – but didn't so much as loosen the leather straps.

Playing, as usual.

He kissed his way up his now naked body, and again claimed his lips, before he hooked an arm around his waist, and stepped into the pool with him – still fully clothed.

Will hoped, despite himself, that that meant he still cared what the three captives thought of him and his appearance, and that in turn meant they might get out of this alive.

The pool water stung his abused cock and balls and he had to pause, shuddering, blinking hard, briefly grateful for the support the other man provided, lest he'd have fallen in the water. He looked down and saw more blood, swirling in the water. He wasn't bleeding very hard, but how long had that been going, now? How much had he already lost?

“Yes, we're going to be a little rushed, here,” Le Chiffre said, and, turning towards the three captives, he aimed his gun and shot. The man in the middle crashed into the pool among muffled screams.

“There, only two left. I'm making this easier on you.”

He laughed when he saw the terror in Will's eyes.

“What is it, my pet? You want the rules, now, I suppose? Well, here they are: do you know how long it takes for a man to drown?”

He stepped closer, and they were now standing with the captives to their right. When no answer came from the shivering prisoner, Le Chiffre's arm lifted again, gun pointed at the other man.

“Th-three m-minutes- three minutes!” But less, a lot less if the person being drowned was consuming precious oxygen by panicking, or wasn't focusing on holding their breath.

“Good. Three minutes. That's good,” Le Chiffre said, and stepped back in the water, until he was standing with his back to the pool wall, spreading his arms on the tiles of the rim.

“Then, you will have three minutes to convince me.” He grinned.

Will stood in the water that reached up to his waist, his head reeling under the summer sun. 

This wasn't the man who'd captured him – the man who'd carefully planned an attack on a warehouse to depreciate stock values just enough to make a hefty, yet discreet, profit margin upon selling and buying back within the course of a day. This wasn't just mad – this was plain stupid.

“Pretty scene that'll make when Margot sends rescue. I thought you had more dignity than that,” he tried somberly.

Le Chiffre had a discreet laugh. “You are right, Will... Enough talking!” He lifted his free hand, and Will heard the nearly synchronised splashes of the two weighted bodies as they hit the water, disappearined under the surface without having had to time to so much as whimper.

*****

Le Chiffre watched the entirety of the situation compute inside Will Graham's mind – for he remained Will Graham for him, underneath the nicknames he loved giving him – like a programmer watches a computer deal with a powerfully complex equation in a split second.

There was the order he had been given, and the threat behind it he knew to be real – Le Chiffre had made sure to demonstrate the value of his words. The humiliation of pleasing his captor was probably second, behind the dwindling probability that either of the remaining victims would survive the ordeal.

And there was, as he had pointed out, the woman who had escaped; that had started the stopwatch of another set of probabilities – the growing likeliness that she would call for help, and that said help would come to the rescue and thwart Le Chiffre's plan.

Believing him mad was a logical enough conclusion, if one didn't know what Le Chiffre knew about the estate where this little scene was happening.

And, proceeding from that ultimate conclusion, turning to rush towards the drowning victims in a desperate attempt to help them, on the infinitesimal chance that they could escape not only the water but the three armed men surrounding them, was a logical course of action.

A 0.01 chance was still infinitely more likely than zero.

And just as he stood and aimed his gun, Le Chiffre promised himself that he would tell him that, after everything was over and he had properly suffered for his sins.

He lifted his free hand, signalling for his henchmen to stand still, themselves. Will dived under the surface, and for an eerie moment it felt like just another quiet afternoon at the luxurious estate – with only the distant call of a bird to disturb the near silence of the pool.

Le Chiffre watched the jagged silhouette of his captive, smirked when he saw him hesitate between the two struggling bodies, just two seconds, but seconds that were worth lifetimes.

He took a step forward to look closer, and grinned when he saw that his little protégé had, again, acted logically – leaving a trail of blood behind him in the water as he kicked towards the gardener. He patted the man's pockets, found a knife with which he started cutting the ropes that tied the weights to his neck.

By the time both men crashed through the surface for air, the game had been on for exactly one minute and five seconds. A very impressive score.

Will gulped in air, once, twice, and then dove back down to get the younger man still drowning at the bottom of the pool. 

And in the three and half seconds that it took the other man to come to his senses enough to try to follow him, a bullet had ample time to zing through his brain and mix some more red with the pool's artificial blue.

Forty more seconds, and the last man – the young one - was breaching the surface. Will had managed to save both of them.

Well, “save.”

There was no surprise in Will's eyes when he saw the dead man. Shaking, his pupils reduced to pinpoints in those endearing blue eyes made all but blazing by the harsh sunlight – and god, was he gorgeous like this, wet and shivering, his shirt clinging to his well toned torso - he slowly, determinedly walked to stand right by the last one alive, arms spread. If any of the armed men were to shoot, they would most likely get him, too. 

Trying to place a bet where he might have a chance, thin as it was: that Le Chiffre might wish to spare him, and thus spare the kid.

Again, the thinnest chance was still greater than no chance at all.

“Very good thinking,” he commented with a smile, and a wink for the young man he was trying to protect. He was bleeding from his mouth, where the cruel gag had cut right into his tongue.

“I've done everything you've asked of me,” Will said, his voice almost steady, staring into Le Chiffre's eyes. “I have- I have played by your rules, and I have- won.” 

Le Chiffre grinned for him, and slowly cocked up his gun, spreading his arms until he dropped the semi-automatic on the wet tiles.

“Fair's fair. Come, now. You've got this one.” He gestured for the others to cock their guns as well. 

And, of course, there was nothing like trust in the younger man's eyes, but what choice did he have but to try another bet?

He gestured for him to come closer, managed not to laugh when the man whose life was at stake tried to speak, only to slur a series of unintelligible wet sounds.

“What, do you think me such a sore loser? Really? Do you think that's how I've stayed in business for so long?” Le Chiffre continued.

Slowly, at last, Will started walking forward, gently pushing the kid with him. Le Chiffre's grin widened, grew warmer, up until the exact distance at which he knew it would be safe to strike – at the exact moment when the doubt in Will's eyes took an edge of hope, and his exhausted body let his guard down just this much.

He struck him with the side of his hand with enough strength to knock him against the side of the pool, shoved the kid back into the deeper water, where the henchmen shouted at him to put his hands in the air and stay where he was, two guns pointed at him again.

Bleeding and tired as he was, Will fought him with all the strength that eight months of relentless mistreatment, humiliation and witnessed horror had given him. Le Chiffre could appreciate that desperate energy, the way that young, strong, supple body strained, struggled against his even as he was knocked back against the hard wall again.

“Still alive,” Le Chiffre told him with a smirk, and Will stared at the shivering kid, wide-eyed. Everything he knew told him there was no hope left, that this was yet another cruel game, that Le Chiffre would never let him live.

But he /couldn't/ just throw that life away, just the same.

He grew passive under the other man, staring up at him.

“Not for very long,” he breathed bitterly, quiet enough that nobody but his captor could hear.

Le Chiffre shrugged. “You never know, in life... All you can do is place bets and put probabilities on your side.”

He dove for a quick, biting kiss, laughed against him when that drew blood. And his pet was passive, unresponsive under him. He'd let him have him any way he wanted, he knew. But he didn't want a warm sex doll, not that time.

He lifted a hand, and a first bullet hit home, right through the hapless kid's hand, who shouted and swore.

Le Chiffre laughed when Will started struggling again – weaker now, nevertheless.

When Will's fist hit him squarely in the jaw, Le Chiffre almost fell back, head reeling – he hadn't seen that one coming. He retorted with a blow of his own, and they thought again, intimate and raw, until, finally, Will was pinned against the wall of the pool with his ass exposed.

They both cried out when Le Chiffre entered him – dry penetration was painful on them both, but the pleasure of the act was worth it for his captor.

Another bullet, to their right, added some blood to the water, and some cries to the air; some strength to Will's desperation – and he did try to protest, to push him off him, to plead and threaten and spit and bite his tormentor's wrist.

Will cried out angrily when something tore inside him, and if he felt blood well up there, it didn't help much, and the shared pain made everything last longer, both his and the victim's agony endless, too enormous for Will's mind to withstand.

It took five more bullets, four to keep the kid dancing, and then the merciful last one only when Le Chiffre finally gave the thumb down; they got him right through the head, as the black clad man came, spilling inside, let out a grunt against his pet's bruised shoulder.

“This is how I play,” he growled in Will's ear. “This is how I win.”

Will wasn't given time to retort: a swift blow knocked him finally, mercifully, unconscious.

And, this time, there was no palace to welcome him. No stream to comfort him. No ocean. Nothing.

*****

The first thing he saw when he woke up was the dark red blood bag dangling above him. He blinked, trying to parse where he was before he tried anything. A very small, discreet attempt at moving various parts of his body told him that he had been bandaged, and that, for once, the cruel harness seemed to be gone – either that, or his genitals had finally been disposed of. He couldn't be sure, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know, just yet.

/Hello, Will,/ the familiar voice of his inner Hannibal said when he closed his eyes again.

/I thought you'd gone for good,/ he said in his mind. /Didn't hear anything from you while I was under./

But Hannibal didn't seem to have any clever retort for that. Instead, Will heard a shuffling of steps come closer, and when the voice spoke next, it wasn't inside his mind.

He felt a warm breath brush against his cheek. The scent of a cologne he thought he'd never smell again.

“I'm pleased to see you again, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I promise I do like Will Graham...)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed the ride so far...
> 
> I welcome concrit (as well, of course, as all other forms of feedback if you feel like leaving any :) )


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